Leng Youchen took a quick shower, and when his fingers came into contact with the water, a sharp pain followed. He went downstairs wrapped in a bathrobe, his hair hanging wet and damp. At this moment, the man appeared lazy and harmless.
There was no trace of the determination and ruthlessness he had when he shot the assassin earlier.
Wei Anning was sitting on the sofa. Hearing footsteps, she looked up and saw the man approaching with a lazy gait, like a pedigree Persian cat. He sat down next to her.
"Why did you take a shower? The injury on your hand shouldn't touch water." His hair was still dripping, sliding down his chiseled face and into his bathrobe.
She felt parched, involuntarily swallowed, then averted her gaze in a fluster, "I-I'll go get the first aid kit."
As soon as she stood up, her wrist was grasped, and a force pulled her back, toppling onto the man's lap. Embarrassed, she tried to stand up but was pushed back down by his large hand.
